


The Ol' Switcheroo

by LittleDisAwesome



Series: These Times Are Changing [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton is Hawkeye, Deaf Clint Barton, First Meeting, First Meetings, Gay Bucky Barnes, Immediate Attraction, M/M, Matt Fraction Hawkeye - Freeform, Meet-Cute, Modern Bucky Barnes, Musician Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Not Movie Clint, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDisAwesome/pseuds/LittleDisAwesome
Summary: At the age of 45, Clint Barton meets Bucky Barnes and has the surprise of a lifetime. Natasha is exactly zero percent surprised by this revelation.(Or Clint realizes men can be very appealing, and Bucky sings in a shitty bar in Bedford-Stuyvesant.)





	The Ol' Switcheroo

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious, Bucky's band is basically The Struts. Bucky is one-armed, gay, Luke Spiller. And you should listen to The Struts anyway.

Bar night had become a weekly occurrence. Natasha came to Bed-Stuy to pick him up and forced him to leave his apartment. Some weeks it was the only time he left the apartment. Without Kate around to force him to socialize, he would just forget.

He hoped she would forgive him soon.

Without knocking, Natasha breezed into his apartment and dropped onto his couch. "—got to charge your — aids." He missed some of the words, but he got the gist. And he had been letting his hearing aids die more often. It was a fair criticism.

He reached up to touch his ear and noticed the device wasn't looped around his ear. Maybe Natasha had knocked. His hearing was probably getting worse. Bad luck Clint, struck again.

He looked over at her and shrugged. If someone needed to say something to him, then he could read lips. He had managed to keep his tenants happy, even without 80% of his hearing. And without leaving his apartment. He was a master landlord. "'m not wearing them." He told her, looking down at his cup of coffee.

She knew better than to say anything when he wasn't looking at her, so he knew she was waiting. Frowning he looked back at her, "— them on. It's bar —."

Clint reached over to the table to grab his hearing aids - at least Tony had made them purple and had left the Stark Industries logo off of them. He watched her as he slid the ear molds into his ears and looped the hooks over the cartilage. "Happy?" He asked. Tony probably needed to market hearing aids, it was almost magic how much better his hearing was when he was wearing them.

She shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest. "Are they on?"

Her voice came across clearly, so he nodded. Simone must have put them on the charger for him when she came to pick her kids up. She did her best to take care of him, despite his efforts to ask her to stop. His purchase of the building hadn't actually made things that much better for her family.

"We need to leave now if you want to leave before the music starts." They never stayed for the music. It hurt his ears. They just went for a couple of drinks so they could catch up. The powers that be no longer seemed to see his value and often left him out of things. A spy who couldn't hear didn't seem particularly useful. Natasha, though, was still valuable and was sent away on a regular basis. Somehow she almost always made it back to see Clint once a week though.

At least The Avengers still took him out whenever they went on team missions.

"I've got beer here." He told her, looking down into his cup of coffee again. It had started to go cold, but that was okay. He lifted it to his mouth and downed the murky beverage. "Aw, coffee..."

"We're going to the bar, Clinton," she raised one eyebrow, and he knew he had no choice, "I'd be willing to bet you haven't left this dump since I took you out last week."

That was true, not that he would admit to it. Natasha knew him, and she would be able to tell if he lied. "I'm disabled," he told her, knowing she wouldn't care for his excuses, "I get groceries delivered."

She pursed her lips and dropped her hands to the couch. With a groan she pushed herself into a standing position, her eyes locked on him, "grab your wallet, we're going Clint."

His (expired) license and a debit card were already in his pocket - he hadn't changed his jeans since the week before. "Got it," he set his mug down, his shoulders slumped forward. "Katie-Kate is still mad at me," he pet Lucky on his head, dropping his gaze when the dog whined at the sound of Kate's name. He missed her too.

"Did you apologize for whatever you did wrong?"

"I am sorry, but it's not something I can change." If someone had come up with a way to get better from crippling depression, then they hadn't bothered to pass the memo on to him. And he would have loved to have it. "At least she didn't take Lucky this time."

Natasha nodded, her eyes scanning him carefully. She knew he was right, and so she said nothing. It was her tell. At least with him. He knew she didn't pull these stunts with the others, she didn't seem to think they needed it. Or, at the very least, she thought that they had their lives together enough that they could take care of themselves better than a person who had grown up in a murder factory.

Or maybe she just cared about him most.

She kept her eyes on him as he sat down on the floor by her feet. He groaned and reached under the couch to grab his shoes. With one last pathetic glance at her, he tugged them on his feet. He really wasn't feeling up to going out.

"It's important to go out kotyonok..." She frowned down at him and rest her hand on top of his head, "you aren't going to get better if you just stay inside."

He didn't look back up at her, instead focusing on tying his shoes. He didn’t want to talk about it. And she didn’t want to hear that she was 45 years too late on the ‘getting better’ train. “Are we going to the place on the corner?” He asked instead.

“They have the best vodka in the area you’re willing to travel.” Which meant it’s the least shitty, but at least she was trying. “They make those fried pickles, I like.”

Clint liked them too.

Knowing he had been defeated, he eased himself up onto his feet and looked down at himself. God, he looked like such a bum next to Natasha. “You look beautiful, as always.” He told her, a few minutes late. It was essential to compliment the people you cared about, so they felt appreciated. He knew that.

She smiled, looping her arm around his and tugging on it. “Let’s get to the bar, Clinton.”

  
____

  
Clint stared at the singer of the band. That was new. Long dark hair, one arm, missing some important curves. But still so pretty. Huh.

Nat was smirking into her drink, probably thinking something ridiculous. He had been watching the singer's warm-up for too long. "They're starting soon." He told her. The guitarist had plugged a cord into his instrument and had started strumming it. If they didn't leave soon, they would have to stay for long enough to keep it from seeming like they were going because the music was terrible.

What if Clint ran into the singer one day? What if he decided he wanted to flirt?

She waved the bartender over and asked to close out their tab while Clint continued to stare at the man on stage. "We can probably stay if you turn off your hearing aids, Clint." She told him - as always, she knew him better than he knew himself. "I'll tell you if he's any good."

He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and kneaded it with his teeth. Staying would be admitting that he'd been watching the man, and he wasn't sure he wanted to broach that. Not with himself, and not with Natasha. That was a whole can of worms he'd be opening. She already had ideas he didn't want her having.

When he opened his mouth he meant to tell Natasha that he'd rather leave, but instead what he said was, "I think we should do that." The man on stage was doing something with his hips, and Clint was definitely interested in watching that a bit longer.

Keeping his eyes on the stage, he reached up and flipped the switch on each hearing aid.

Beside him, she motioned at the bartender again, "— pickles," he caught, but his attention wasn't on her. He was focused on the way the singer removed the microphone from the stand.

The singer locked eyes with him and smirked, and Clint felt blood racing into his face. Humiliating.

After that he made a point not to even look at the stage; instead, he turned around to face Natasha. Just in time to see the blonde bartender set a basket of fried pickles down in front of her.

Just as he reached for one of the pickles, the guitarist made some sort of noise with his instrument that was loud enough to shake the glasses on the bar, and he was infinitely thankful that he'd turned off his hearing aids. Even with them completely off the sound rattled his eardrums. If he'd kept up with the doctor he was supposed to be seeing, then he would surely have gotten scolded for this exercise.

He hadn't even liked live music when he'd only had 20% hearing loss.

 _'Do you know this band?'_ he signed to Natasha, hoping she would be willing to converse with him while the band played.

 _'I think they're on the radio,'_ she signed back, her fingers easily forming the words. She was truly amazing, ' _The singer is good looking, is he not?'_

Clint felt blood race to his face again. The singer was absolutely not Natasha's type, and he knew she was only commenting because she'd seen him looking. And she always saw right through him.

_‘It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Clint.’_

He nodded and turned his gaze away from her as well. He wasn’t going to discuss this with her, yet. If ever. Just because one guy was distractingly good looking, didn’t mean it had to be A Thing. The music was still going, effectively blocking out any ability to hear so when the bartender stood in front of him, he was thankful he’d mastered lip reading.

“Just a pint of Miller,” he told her, hoping his voice carried over the music. She nodded, and within a minute a drink was placed in front of him. “Thanks.” He gave her a small wave and took the glass into his hand.

He stared down into his beer, watching the music cause ripples in it and feeling the sound move through the air. Every once in a while, a few lyrics would make it through, but, for the most part, it didn’t sound like anything other than noise. He had no idea why he’d even agreed to stay.

Those hips had been so distracting though.

 

____

 

The singer sat next to Clint and held a hand up to the bartender. The young woman placed a glass of ice in front of him, smiling as she poured whiskey into it. “—, Doll.” He smirked and took the drink into his hand once she lifted the bottle.

Clint turned to look at Natasha, only to notice that she had wandered off. She knew what she was doing, and Clint hated it. When he turned back around, he saw the singer looking at him expectantly. “Sorry, um —” He reached up to turn on his right hearing aid, “I had them turned down.”

Smooth, Clint.

The singer nodded, “Music that bad?” He asked, and even his voice was nice. And the slight upturn of the corners of his lips when he closed his mouth. He was going to have to address this with Natasha, he was sure.

“It was good!” He replied, a bit too loud to be natural. He grimaced and turned on the other hearing aid, hoping it would help him regulate a bit. Even though he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He’d probably lost at least 5% more hearing by staying for the show, and it was going to take days before he fully evened out the sound of his own voice. “Loud noises hurt.”

He didn’t know why he was acting as though he was embarrassed about being disabled. He was sat speaking to a man with one arm, and, even if that wasn’t the case, he wasn’t ashamed of his disability. There were plenty of things he was embarrassed about but being deaf wasn’t one of them. The man didn’t seem to be judging him for his lack of hearing. He was just curious. People often were.

The singer smiled, “I saw you watching me before the show,” his grey eyes (grey!) shone with amusement, “hopefully that means you’ll give me your number?”

Clint was being flirted with, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t sure he knew how to react. He’d never flirted with a man, and he’d never been interested in a man. At least as far as he knew. Maybe this was why all three of his marriages had failed? He was going to have to put some thought into that as soon as he was done flirting. “Only if you’ll have dinner with me.” Smooth, Barton, good work. He wanted to pat himself on the back for that one.

The singer smirked again. “Of course.” He leaned back to make eye contact with a member of the band and grinned. “Lead the way.” He watched as Bucky picked his drink up again and downed the remainder of the whiskey. Impressive.

Clint looked around to see if he could see Natasha and failed, so he pulled out his phone and sent her a quick text letting her know he was leaving. And another promising they would speak about whatever Clint was doing the next day. It was the only way to keep her from tracking his cell phone and storming into whatever restaurant he took the singer to and causing a scene. The last time he’d left bar night without giving her a warning, she’d practically assembled the Avengers to hunt him down. Tony Stark had shown up.

Recklessly jumping into something was entirely in line with his character anyway.

Besides, he was an Avenger, he could easily take a one-armed singer if he had to do it.

“You probably didn’t catch my name when I was up there, it’s Bucky.” When he spoke his name, he slowly spelled it out in front of Clint with his fingers. Clint smiled at him, giving him a thumbs up.

He spelled his own name out, watching the way Bucky's brow furrowed in concentration. He slowly copied the letters with his own hand. "Cl- Clint?" Bucky asked a slight lilt to his voice. Wanting to be told he was correct.

"Clint," he affirmed, spelling his name again, "I can read lips, but it's hard with a microphone blocking your mouth." He slid off of his barstool, giving one more cursory look around the bar to try and spot Natasha’s red hair. It was suspiciously absent. He shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back to Bucky. She would get his text and know where he'd gone. He motioned towards the door, taking the first step and hoping Bucky would follow. “I hope you like breakfast food.”

 

____

 

"Why go to a bar with live music if it hurts your ears?" Bucky asked, his eyes scanning the menu. He kept his mouth in Clint’s view though, making sure Clint could see his lips in case he missed a word. No one did that for him, not even Natasha thought about it.

Clint already knew what he was going to eat, coffee and waffles, and hadn't bothered to open his menu. It was the best 24-hour breakfast joint in Bed-Stuy, and he was a regular visitor when he felt up to leaving his apartment. "My friend Natasha likes that bar," he shrugged, "we go once a week. Sometimes there's a band, so we usually just leave before the music starts." He shrugged. Bucky would understand; part of being disabled meant having to come up with creative ways to deal with it.

Bucky nodded and closed the menu, "I'm going to go out on a limb here and say she's not your girlfriend?"

He snorted. As if Natasha would date someone like Clint. She was basically the most attractive woman on the planet, and he was Clint. Human disaster. (Greatest sharpshooter known to man.) "Best friend, I guess?" What they were was a bit odd, and he didn't want to get into that on a first date. "We work together, she drags me out of my apartment when she thinks I need to go out."

Before Bucky had a chance to respond to that, the server came over and asked him what he wanted to eat. She gave a small smile to Clint and wrote down his usual order. "A short stack please, with bacon, and two sunny side up eggs." And if that wasn't music to Clint's ears.

"I'll get that right out to you." She grinned, smacking her gum.

Clint smiled back at her before turning his attention back to Bucky. “I eat the same thing every time I come here.” He told Bucky, cutting off any questions about why the server hadn’t asked for his order. He wasn’t usually big on change. “She knows my order.”

Bucky nodded and leaned back against the booth. “I’m glad you came to the show,” he smiled and crossed his arm over his chest, “I don’t usually go out with people afterwards.” He, for the first time, seemed a bit nervous as he spoke. As though he was worried Clint would have a bad impression of him.

“I’m glad I came too.” He was going to have to give Natasha chocolates for forcing him out of his apartment. “And I think I owe you my number.”

They’d had minimal conversation, but he wanted to explore whatever he had happened upon. Kate had told him he needed to put himself out there, and that he needed to try new things. Going out with strange men probably wasn’t what she had meant, but he was doing his best.

Bucky grinned and pushed his phone across the table. Clint took it and typed his number into it, saving it as ‘Clint Barton.’ He slid it back to Bucky. “I can talk on the phone if I’ve got my ears on, but texting is usually a better option.” He admitted, “I don’t wear them at home like I’m supposed to, so I don’t always know where they are in my place.”

“I’ll text you then.” Bucky took the phone and stuck it back into his pocket.

____

 

Natasha dropped a file on him, and he groaned. He hadn't even noticed she'd entered his apartment. It hadn't been a week, and it wasn't bar night again.

"What...?" He mumbled, grabbing the file before it could fall to the floor.

"Hearing —, Clint." She crossed her arms over her chest, not speaking again until she saw him flick the switch on his hearing aids. "His name is James Barnes, son of Russian immigrants, he lost his arm in Iraq. Here's his dossier." He had known she would do something like that, but he hadn't thought she would be done so quickly.

With a frown, he pushed the documents on to the floor. "Is he Hydra or some shit?" He asked, closing his eyes again.

"Not that I could find," which meant Bucky was probably not Hydra, a Nazi, or any sort of terrorist. Natasha wasn't going to half-ass something like this, and Clint knew it. "He did att—" before she could finish her sentence he pulled the hearing aids from his ears.

"If he's not a Nazi, then I want to find out about him like a normal person." He told her, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn't accidentally read her lips. She pat his shoulder a couple of times, and he felt her leave.

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Matt Fraction's Hawkeye comics you're really missing out. So you should go read those.
> 
> I'll be adding stories to the series as time goes on following their relationship if you're interested!


End file.
